


Life In A Box (Is Better Than No Life At All)

by gollumgollum



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 15:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gollumgollum/pseuds/gollumgollum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suffice to say, Mike has long known himself to be the kind of person who is capable of dealing with just about any uncertainty life throws his way, even if that includes a boss who speaks mostly in eyebrows and a job that's never just about being the driver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life In A Box (Is Better Than No Life At All)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cgb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cgb/gifts).



> Dear [cgb,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cgb/pseuds/cgb) i don't know if Wynn Duffy's eyebrows can be conveyed in fic either, but i've certainly tried. This was a lot of fun to write, especially because it's a story i don't think i would have even considered without your prompt. Unfortunately, the machinations of Season 4 and its incredibly tight timeline meant i wasn't able to squeeze Ava in here, but i got everyone else you asked for. I hope you like! 
> 
> Set a few weeks after Season 4; while they're not the focus of the story, there are spoilers for Season 4 tucked away in here. 
> 
> Title from Tom Stoppard's _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_.

When Mike was nine years old, Toni Morrison won the Nobel Prize for Literature. He only knows this because his mother took it into her head to congratulate Ms. Morrison, bundling Mike into the car and driving them from Orlando to Grand View-on-Hudson, stopping only when Mike needed to eat or use the bathroom. He didn't complain much; even at nine he was used to his mother's mercurial moods, her split-second life-altering decisions that had taken them from Cincinnati to Denver to Orlando and now New York, and he knew that it was best just to stay quiet and watch as the landscape changed from brown to snow.

They arrived in Grand View-on-Hudson early, just as the sun was starting to push its way over the land on the other side of the river, and parked in front of a large, old-fashioned house. Mike watched as his mother checked her hair and makeup in the rearview, peeling her lips back to make sure she had no lipstick on her teeth, then turned to smile at him. "Ready, baby?" she asked. Mike didn't know what to say, so he just nodded.

"Tell you what, I'll take you to Dunkin' Donuts for breakfast, how's that sound?"

Mike nodded again. "That sounds good." He liked donuts.

"Shit," his mother paused as realization struck. "It's Christmas. Dunkin' won't be open." She gave him an apologetic smile. "We'll find something, okay, baby?"

"Sure," he shrugged.

The house was strung with lights and pine, and it was maybe the nicest house Mike had ever seen. Candles flickered in every window, and in the early sunlight it looked cozy and warm, surrounded by snow with the dark water of the Hudson at their backs. His mother had marched right up to the door and knocked like it wasn't first thing in the morning. Mike looked around at the lights, the candles, the pine hanging from the rafters, stamping his feet a little in his Nikes to warm them up.

The door opened after a minute, and a tall, lean pajama-clad figure stood there looking them over, one eyebrow arched. "Can I help you?"

"Hi, yes, we're here to see Mrs. Morrison?" Mike's mother said, giving the man her most winning smile.

It didn't seem to sway him, however. "She's not home."

"Do you know when she'll be back?" she tried.

"No." The man tried to close the door, but Mike's mother had jammed one high heel into the gap.

"Please," she said, "we've driven all the way from Florida. I just wanted to congratulate her."

The man raised one eyebrow at that. "Ma'am, I'm going to tell you this once. You're not welcome here, and you are trespassing. If you don't leave-- _immediately_ \--I am going to call the police."

"You don't have to be nasty," Mike's mother muttered, stepping back. "I've got my kid here."

"If I see you hanging around, I'm calling the police," the man said, closing the door in her face.

"Well," Mike's mother said, turning to him. "I can't believe the nerve!"

She bundled them back into the car, the creaky heater turned on full blast making the car smell like the ocean. Mike hadn't really cared about Orlando one way or another, but for a brief moment, he felt almost homesick, or maybe he was just sick of being cold. "Let's go get breakfast," his mother said after a moment, a quiver in her voice.

"Okay," Mike said. He _was_ getting kind of hungry.

They drove north until they came to a town. Mike hunkered down into his coat, watching as they drove past darkened storefronts and beneath strands of Christmas lights that made the streets feel even emptier. He wondered if anyone in the houses they passed noticed them driving by, and if so, what they thought about the battered Honda with the Florida plates circling the streets. Finally, after the third closed diner that they passed, Mike's mother pulled into a gas station. "Sorry, baby," she said. "I guess they don't believe in twenty-four hour restaurants up here. Tell you what--I'm gonna get some gas, you go pick out whatever you want, okay?"

Mike nodded, taking the twenty dollar bill she handed him. "I'll put ten in, the rest is all for you," she said. "Hey, it's pre-pay, so make sure and pay first so I can pump the gas, okay? Don't leave me standing out in the cold."

"I got it," Mike said. She was acting weird--not that much weirder than usual, but a little, and it was enough.

He paid for her gas first, then wandered the aisles, rolling the ten dollar bill he'd gotten as change between his fingers as he tried to decide what to get. They had a hot chocolate machine, so he started there, pushing the button and watching the cocoa fill up his styrofoam cup. He picked up a pack of powdered donuts, then some M&Ms for his mom because it was Christmas.

"Hey," the guy said when he set his loot down on the counter. "Is that your mom?" He nodded out the window. Mike looked up just in time to see the Honda pull out onto the street, back the way they came.

"Yeah," he said, shrugging like it was no big deal. "We're staying with a friend just down the street. I told her I'd walk."

"Okay," the guy said, sounding a little dubious as he looked Mike over, taking in his too-thin jacket and worn sneakers. "You sure you'll be warm enough?"

"I'm good," Mike said. "We're just past that diner down there," he pointed.

"Alright, then." The guy didn't quite look like he believed him, but he took Mike's money.

Mike tucked the M&Ms into a pocket of his jacket, scooped his change from the counter and then took his donuts and his cocoa. It was cold when he pushed through the door--not bitterly cold, but cold enough, and he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head before heading down the road, popping a donut into his mouth. He'd been walking for about fifteen minutes, long enough that he was almost to the interstate where it curved to arch over the Hudson, long enough that his cocoa had gone cold and his fingers numb, before he caught sight of the Honda chugging its way up the road.

His mother pulled a U-turn and pulled up next to him, leaning across the seat to push the door open. "C'mon, baby, get in!" she said. She smelled like gasoline, tendrils of her hair haloing around her head where they'd escaped from her hasty ponytail.

"Where'd you go?" he asked, tugging at the seatbelt as she drove off, heading south again.

"Just realized I'd forgotten something," she said brightly. There were sirens behind them, and she pulled over to let a pair of firetrucks go screaming past.

"Here," Mike said, digging the M&Ms out of his pocket. "I got you these."

She took them with a tilt of her head, smiling at him like he'd done something sweet, then leaned over and kissed the top of his head. "Thank you, baby."

"Welcome," he muttered, blushing and hunching down in his seat.

Another fire truck and an ambulance passed them as they drove, and a minute later Mike saw where they were going: the house they'd stopped at before was ablaze, flames shooting out of its upstairs windows. There was a sheriff parked in the road, hand up to stop traffic, and Mike felt all of the blood in his veins turn to ice, but the sheriff just waved them into the other lane to go around all of the fire trucks. Mike craned his neck to look as they drove by, catching sight of the man who'd answered the door standing out in the yard, still in his pajamas.

They'd gone to Philly that night, and his mother had never mentioned either Toni Morrison or the fire again. Suffice to say, Mike has long known himself to be the kind of person who is capable of dealing with just about any uncertainty life throws his way. Which is why, when they turn the corner to find the RV is not where they'd left it, Mike doesn't flinch, nor does he bother trying to anticipate what Wynn Duffy's reaction might be. Duffy isn't quite as mercurial or insane as his reputation might make him out to be, but that doesn't mean his reputation's a total fabrication, either.

They both look at the empty alley in silence for a long moment before Duffy speaks. "Mike," he says in a calm, measured tone, "I'm going to need to make a few phone calls."

* * *

He ends up in Wynn Duffy's employ after answering, of all things, a Craigslist ad looking for someone with a valid driver's license, a permit for concealed carry, and, quote, 'the ability to maintain a clean, professional attire at all times and operate in a respectful and courteous fashion.' His job description has since expanded to include the following duties, in no particular order, and subject to change without notice: Care, maintenance and operation of the motorhome. Maintaining an awareness of the WTA Tour schedule, especially televised matches. Making tea, but not food, for Duffy. Keeping the pantry and liquor cabinets stocked. Carrying at least one pistol at all times, with intent to fire if necessary. Drop off and pick up of the dry cleaning. Disposal of any and all incriminating or otherwise illicit property. Carrying and, often, answering, Duffy's cell phone.

He answered the ad because he was tired of working at a gym by day and bouncing frat boys out of Lexington clubs by night. Truth be told, his job description hasn't changed all that much, although he makes more tea than he used to. Duffy has never once mentioned any possibility for advancement, which Mike understands. He's not here to grab at the brass ring. Besides, that would involve talking to people, glad handing them, and Mike's inherently suspicious of people who like to schmooze. Look at where it got Gary Hawkins or Emmitt Arnett--hell, look where it got Robert Quarles. Duffy doesn't pay Mike to talk, although he allows the occasional raised eyebrow when things get ridiculous. Wynn Duffy is fluent in eyebrows, in the eloquence that can be conveyed with a single facial expression. It means Mike's never felt like he can't make his feelings known on the subject at hand.

Duffy hangs up the phone. He's not exactly one to telegraph his emotions, but he does not look pleased; his face has taken on that sour-lemon look that tends to come before his disappointed voice, eyebrows pinching together as if he is physically pained by his circumstances. "The good news is that it doesn't look like the RV was impounded by local law enforcement. The bad news is that that means we have no idea where it is."

Mike nods. They've been careful, but that doesn't mean a forensic team couldn't dig damning evidence out of the cracks between the walls and floor of the motorhome if they stripped it down to the bones. "Where do you want to start looking?" he asks.

Duffy looks at the spot where the RV should be for a moment. "Aries," he says finally. "We should start with Aries."

* * *

The worst part about the sale and distribution of illicit substances, Mike has long thought, is that it means that you will, at some point, be forced to interact with junkies. It doesn't happen as often as one might think; Wynn Duffy is not one to suffer fools gladly, and most of the people they interact with are smart enough to be well aware of this. But every now and again, one of their dealers also happens to have his shit together enough to use their product as well as distribute it.

Aries Griffin is one of those.

Aries--or maybe it's spelled Ares, Mike could see him being the kind of guy to name himself after a Greek god--is one of Frankfort's finest gossips. He's the kind of guy who always seems to know more than he should about the various happenings of Frankfort's underground, and despite being overly fond of doo-rags and gold chains, he's weirdly charismatic. Mike's not the kind of guy who really goes for charisma--again, look what it did for any number of fuckers who have rolled through their now-absent RV--but he can appreciate it for what it is, at least.

Aries meets them at the Waffle House on Versailles Road. He's already waiting when they get there, seated in a booth and flirting with the waitress over the partition. He's got a bowl in front of him that Mike knows from past experience is the grits served 'all the way'--smothered, covered, diced, and whatever else the Waffle House could scrounge out of its cabinets to throw on there. It looks, quite frankly, like a bowl full of vomit. Aries is eating it with gusto, and will almost certainly lick the bowl clean when he's done.

Aries is kind of a savage.

"Mr. Duffy," he says, breaking into a semi-toothy grin as he sees them. "Mr. Duffy's shadow. Pull up some table."

Duffy sits, disgust on his face as he touches the surely sticky formica. Mike takes a seat on the stool at the near end of the counter, turned towards their booth. "Mr. Griffin," Duffy says.

Aries spoons up a huge bite of grits-and-glop, but he pauses to speak before bringing it up to his mouth. "What can I do ya for?"

"I'm looking for some information," Duffy says. "My motorhome has disappeared, and I need to find it. This information would be handsomely rewarded."

"Your motorhome, eh?" Aries swirls his spoon through his bowl. "Where was it?"

"An alley behind the convention center," Duffy answers. "It disappeared sometime this morning."

"Any idea who might have taken it?"

Duffy's voice is clipped. "If I knew, I wouldn't be here talking to you, would I?"

"Eh, good point, good point," Aries says, nodding. "I can ask around, see what I can find out."

"See that you do," Duffy says, rising from the booth. "I'll be in touch."

They go shake down another half-dozen of their people without any further success; whoever's taken the RV, it's not anyone in Frankfort. Duffy glares out the windshield for a long moment after their last conversation, Mike waiting for him to decide where to go. "Mike," he says after a long moment, "let's go to Harlan."

* * *

Mike is starting to hate the drive to Harlan, although it's easier to do in a car than it is in a forty foot motorhome. It's two hours on the interstate, then another hour winding through the hills and hollers, over and then along the Kentucky Ridge. They're never there for very long, which he doesn't mind, but it makes for a tedious commute. Mike's not paid to complain, however, and driving to Harlan doesn't even begin to crack the top five in the list of downsides to his job.

Duffy makes a few more phone calls while they're still on the interstate, before they make the left turn at Corbin and lose cell reception. He sits in the front seat, which Mike appreciates; Duffy's not the kind of guy to sit in the back, and he's not above getting his hands dirty.

Mike doesn't ask where to go, just drives them to Crowder's bar. They haven't been down here since Ava Crowder got picked up for murder and Nicky Augustine gave up Johnny, other than for a brief meeting with Boyd; Wynn's been keeping his distance from Harlan since the Drew Thompson fiasco went down and Sammy Tonin made his play. Tonin the Younger at least seems to be a reasonable sort, which probably happens when everyone thinks you're a pushover and a pussy. Mike's pretty sure everyone but Duffy has underestimated the bald heir apparent, especially given the whole airport showdown. But that's Duffy; their next boss could be a literal chimpanzee, and Duffy would continue to do his job.

They're never quite sure what they're going to waltz into at Crowder's bar. It's two in the afternoon, which means that only the truly motivated have had time to get stupid drunk. Duffy goes in first, but Mike's close behind, ready to go for his gun if the hillbillies give him a reason.

"Wynn Duffy," Boyd Crowder says when he sees them, pushing himself up from where he's been sitting at the bar, all long legs and swagger. There's something missing from him, this time; he's hardened into something sharp and brittle with Ava gone, and there's an underlying menace there that promises swift retribution for even the slightest provocation. Boyd Crowder's always been dangerous, but Mike takes note of him even the same. Jimmy, the blond henchman and the only one left of the group that met them the first time, is behind the bar and undoubtedly has his fingers on a shotgun, but if things go sour Mike's taking Crowder out first.

Crowder smiles, and it's empty of anything but malice and teeth. "Now this is a surprise. What brings you gentlemen to our fair establishment on this fine day?"

"Mister Crowder," Duffy greets him. As ever, he is reserved in the face of Crowder's freewheeling loquaciousness. "I'm here looking for something that was taken from me."

"Aren't we all," Crowder says. He gestures towards the bar, and Jimmy behind it. "Come sit and have a drink with me and you can tell me what it is you're missing."

"No thank you," Duffy says. Mike doesn't tense, doesn't move, but he's plotting angles and cover, eyes on Jimmy as if daring him to make a move. "My motorhome disappeared some time after seven o'clock this morning."

"I was not aware of that." Crowder doesn't look at anyone for confirmation first, although, Mike supposes, all of the people he might have looked to are dead or in prison now. Jimmy seems to be here through pure dumb luck at this point more than any sort of aptitude or merit, and he's never seemed like the type who Crowder asks for input.

"No," Duffy says, "I didn't expect you would be." Or would admit it, he doesn't have to say.

"Well, surely a vehicle of its size and distinctiveness couldn't be that hard to hide," Crowder says, leaning back against the bar. He's almost enjoying this. "Was this here in Harlan?"

"No. It was in Frankfort. At the time it disappeared, Mike and I were... running an errand." The kind where fingers were broken--again, unspoken.

Crowder doesn't smile, but there's a light in his eyes that looks almost gleeful. "Well, then with all due respect, I would suggest that perhaps the vehicle in question--your motorhome, was it? Would be found nearer the scene of the crime."

Duffy's eyebrows don't move, but he still looks unimpressed with Crowder's deductive reasoning. "The thought had occurred to me."

"You know," Crowder says, raising a finger to point at the sky as if a thought has just occurred to him, "you might try checking with a certain gentleman of our mutual acquaintance. If I recall, the Marshal's Service makes a habit of confiscating property involved in the procurement of or purchased with ill-gotten gains."

Now the eyebrows go up. "You think Givens took my motorhome?"

Crowder smirks like they're sharing a joke. "Well, I wouldn't put it past him."

"Thank you, Mister Crowder," Duffy says. He doesn't roll his eyes at Mike when he turns around, but then again he doesn't have to. "I'll be in touch."

Crowder sketches a little bow towards Duffy's back. "If I do hear anything about your decamped conveyance, I will surely let you know, Mr. Duffy."

Duffy doesn't turn. "See that you do. Mike," he nods at the door.

Duffy's phone beeps a notification as they come out of the hollers and pull onto the interstate, then another, and another. Mike hands it to him, eyes on the road; Duffy just looks at it, clears the notifications and hands it back.

* * *

"Wynn Duffy," Arnold Pinter says, smiling down at his computer screen and tapping a few keys as Duffy weaves his way through the restaurant towards him, Mike close on his heels. "How the heck are ya?"

"Clearly not that well, considering I'm here talking to you," Duffy replies.

Pinter saves something on his computer, then puts a hand to his chest, a wounded look on his face as he looks up. "I'm hurt, truly." He snaps his fingers at the waitress as she slides by. "Sheila? A drink for my friends. What'll you have, Mr. Duffy?"

"Bourbon," Duffy says, sitting opposite Pinter.

"Bourbon for Mr. Duffy, of course," Pinter smiles up at Sheila, "and one for his friend Mike, the hardest workin' guy this side of the Ohio, am I right?"

Mike raises an eyebrow at him, but he doesn't turn down the bourbon. It's one of the few perks of the job.

Pinter leans back in his chair. "Now that we've got the important stuff out of the way, how can I help you? Since, y'know, you've made it clear that this ain't a social call." He lowers his voice a little. "Word on the street is that you're missing something that's about forty feet long, give or take."

"Word on the street would be correct, for once," Duffy says dryly. "You sound like you know something."

Pinter shakes his head. "That's the thing. You'd think that something like that wouldn't just up and disappear, but your motorhome certainly seems to have. It's the damnedest thing."

"So you're saying, what, it's been abducted by aliens?" Duffy has sounded less and less impressed as the day goes on. To be honest, Mike's expecting things to devolve into outright violence any minute now.

"Now, let's not be ridiculous," Pinter says, clearly amused. "I'm not saying _that_. But it is pretty interesting, the way no one seems to know anything about it. Usually, someone steals something that big, somebody knows."

"And yet, if you're to be believed, nobody knows."

"Right? It's a mystery. Ah! Here we are." Pinter smiles up at the waitress as she drops off their drinks, along with an egg cream for him. "Thanks, doll."

Mike nods as she hands him his drink. This is always the part when he expects bullets to start flying, even if things have been going well--he and Duffy distracted by the liquor, hands full and eyes astray. He knocks his bourbon back quickly, setting the glass back on the waitress's tray as she slips past him. He glances around the restaurant, reassuring himself that no one's pulled a gun in his moment of distraction.

"So, Mr. Pinter, what are you trying to tell me?" Duffy takes a sip of his whiskey, but he's watching Pinter.

"I'm saying that I don't think you're going to find what you're looking for in any of the usual places. Like I said, something like that is hard to hide. The fact that nobody knows nothing says to me that they don't actually know anything."

Mike can almost hear the corners of Duffy's eyebrows go up. "And who, do you think, would be able to tell me something?"

Pinter shrugs. "Have you tried the Marshals? That's about the only other suggestion I got."

"Are you saying this as a snitch, or is this just a wild guess?"

Pinter's eyes widen, all faux-innocence. "It ain't because I know somethin'. I'm just saying, the Marshal's Service has their whole 'ill-gotten gains' schtick. I figure it's worth looking into."

Duffy is statue-still. The less Duffy moves, the more Mike readies himself for trouble. "The problem with this theory," Duffy says in measured tones, "is that Raylan Givens loves nothing more than making a spectacle. He's not the kind of man who slips in and simply waltzes off with something when he has the opportunity to make sure you know he's the one taking away your toys. I can't see him seizing my vehicle without first showing up and waving his badge in my face."

"Yeah, but Raylan Givens ain't around right now," Pinter says, a triumphant smirk on his face.

This clearly gives Duffy pause. "Excuse me?"

"Givens got suspended a couple weeks back," Pinter says with satisfaction. "I been dealing with some new guy, a Deputy Dunlop? If you ask me, he's kind of a stick in the mud, makes me miss the cowboy. Heck, I'd take Deputy Gutterson back--at least he had a sense of humor. This Dunlop guy? Boring as all hell." Pinter takes a sip of his egg cream, then shakes his head. "Now, you'd know better than me if the Marshals got some reason to go after your stuff. I kinda figured you were all tied up with Givens and whatever's been going on down with the hillbillies in Harlan, but I know you're a man of many interests."

Mike misses the rest of what Pinter's saying; he straightens up as he catches sight of a familiar hat pausing briefly at the bar. "Duffy."

He nods at the bar, and Duffy follows his gaze, then turns back to look at Pinter. "I thought you said Raylan Givens was on suspension."

Pinter shrugs. "I didn't say I knew for how long. Besides, it's Givens. He strike you as the kind of guy to take a vacation?"

Givens strolls over, all long legs and one raised eyebrow. He's got a star and a gun clipped to his belt, so Mike figures his suspension's officially over. "Am I interrupting something?" he asks, stopping just far enough away where he can keep everyone in view.

"Deputy Givens! Speak of the devil. We were just talking about you," Pinter says, grinning widely like this is a social call. "I heard you were on vacation."

"Yeah, well, I'm back now," Givens replies, watching Duffy. "I hadn't realized you two were formally acquainted."

"There are times, rather unfortunately, where I am forced to consult with Mr. Pinter on business matters," Duffy replies.

"He know a lot about security systems?" Raylan asks, in that 'you know that I know that you aren't fooling anyone' sort of way that he has. "Or has Mr. Pinter entered the heroin trade?"

"Maybe I simply employ him to manage my books," Duffy says. "But I am curious what brings you here, Marshal Givens. The timing certainly seems suspect, given that Mr. Pinter here just suggested that you might have something that belongs to me."

"It was just a suggestion," Pinter chimes in around the straw of his egg cream, watching Duffy and Givens like he's watching a tennis match.

Raylan tilts his head. "Now, I can think of several things I'd like to give you, including a pass to go to jail, directly to jail without passing go or collecting two hundred dollars. But I can't say as I know of anything that I might have that you own."

Duffy cranes his neck slightly to look at Pinter. "See? Like I said, he would've been a lot more obnoxious about it if it were him."

"If what were me?" Givens asks, giving them both that little squint like he's trying to see the sailboat in the Magic Eye picture. "What're we talkin' about here?"

"Nothing that concerns you," Duffy says, as the phone in Mike's pocket vibrates.

"Well, maybe now I'm concerned," Givens shoots back, glancing between Duffy and Pinter again. "I show up and find the two of you colluding, it kinda makes my neck hairs stand u--Are you gonna answer that?" he interrupts himself, turning to Mike and pointing a finger towards the phone buzzing against Mike's chest.

Mike glances at Duffy, eyebrows up; Duffy rolls his eyes, waving a hand at him to go ahead. "Yeah?" Mike says into the receiver.

"Mikey, darling, please tell my baby brother that it's still incredibly creepy that he has you carry around and answer his phone," an all-too-familiar voice says. "Better yet, be a dear and put him on and I'll tell him myself."

"He's a little busy right now," Mike tries, although Anita Lee, née Duffy, has never been one to listen to reason.

"He's been a little busy all day," she says firmly, in that way of Southern women who expect to be listened to. "If he hadn't been ducking my calls all afternoon, I'd be a little more patient with him."

Givens, Duffy and Pinter are all watching him, each of them listening to every word he says. "I'll have him call you back in just a few minutes," Mike tries, "but this is really not a good--"

"If you hang up on me, I'm going to assume he doesn't want his motorhome," Anita interrupts him. "Did I get your attention? Good. Now. Let. Me. Talk. To. My. Brother."

Mike sighs. "Just a minute." He holds the mouthpiece of the phone to his chest and looks at Duffy. "It's your sister."

"I'll call her back," Duffy says. "Seriously, she should have gotten the message by now."

"I'll talk to her," Raylan offers. Everyone ignores him.

"She says she has the package," Mike says, giving Duffy a Look that he hopes conveys _exactly_ what he means.

Duffy blinks at him for a second. "Of course she does." He stands, then, tugging his suitcoat into place. . "Mr. Pinter, Marshal, I'll leave you to discuss whatever business it is you have together."

"Oh, don't go," Givens says. "Things were just getting interesting."

Duffy looks at him like one might look at an idiot child. "Marshal," he says, dry as dust, "I would think that one of these days you might consider taking an hour or two to see what it's like to have things be a little boring." Without waiting for a response, he holds his hand out for the phone, brushing past Givens.

"Good luck with your little retrieval operation," Pinter calls after them, then mutters "asshole" under his breath, just loud enough for them to hear. Givens just watches them go with a shake of his head.

"Anita," Duffy growls into the phone as they walk out of the restaurant, and here it is--the violence Mike's been waiting for all day. "Would you like to tell me how it is that you've come into possession of my motorhome?"

There's a brief pause, then Duffy snaps the phone shut, looking almost incredulous. "Dabney Street," he says once Mike's started the car.

Mike just looks at him, confused. "In Bellepoint?" It's not the _last_ neighborhood he'd expect to find Anita in, but it's close.

"No, Michael, in New York City," Duffy snaps. "Yes, in Bellepoint." Duffy _never_ calls him Michael. Mike takes the hint and points the car back towards Frankfort, lest any violence ensue before they find Anita.

* * *

The motorhome is parked on Dabney Street as promised, just next to a football field. "I don't know what she's thinking," Duffy says as Mike parks across the street. It's the first thing Duffy's said since they left Lexington. "Be prepared for anything."

"Got it," Mike says. "Any idea why she would have taken it?"

"I'm sure we're about to find out," Duffy replies.

There's no one around the RV, so Duffy yanks open the door and hustles up the steps, Mike on his heels. "I hope you have a good explanation for this," he snaps when he sees his sister.

"Hello, Wynn," Anita says, not bothering to get up from where she's sitting on the couch, a mug of tea in her hand. She's bottle blonde, heavily made up, the kind of woman who's easily underestimated. Mike has seen her steal businesses out from beneath their owners without flinching, and she's got half of the local Frankfort government by the balls. Mike's pretty sure Duffy's hidden bodies for her, although he's never asked. "Hello, Mikey. Make yourself comfortable--or, you know, loom in the corner if you'd prefer," she tells him with a wave of her hand. "Whatever makes you happy."

"Anita, I'm waiting," Duffy says warningly. "Do you know how many trees I have shaken today, how many stones I have been turning over, only to find out that my _sister_ stole my motorhome? Do you understand how that makes me look?"

"I didn't steal it," she dismisses. "I simply borrowed it for a few hours, that's all."

"If you take something without asking permission, it's not borrowing, it's stealing," Duffy snaps--then stops, tilting his head. "You've been smoking in here."

"Among other things," she chuckles.

Duffy's eyebrows hit his hairline--which, given how high the latter is, is impressive. "Anita," he says, his syllables clipped, "did you have sex in my motorhome?"

Mike winces at the thought. If he has to help Wynn hide her body, Christmas at the Duffy household is going to be _awkward_ this year. Anita is shameless, though, sipping at her tea. "It's not like you were going to."

"You steal my motorhome for your sexcapades, and you can't even try to be civil?" Duffy asks, incredulous. "What, was the plan for Jerry to catch you so that I could be the one stuck cleaning up the mess when he inevitably shot this one?" Anita's husband is named Jerry Lee. It's not even the most unfortunate thing about him. Even Duffy thinks he's not right--not in the same league as Robert Quarles, but definitely somewhere between Arnett and that Icepick guy. It doesn't help that Jerry and Anita sleep around on each other constantly. Mike has never understood the Lees' marriage, nor does he ever plan to try.

"It's not like that!" Anita says dismissively. "I just needed someplace... discreet, that's all."

Duffy looks completely and thoroughly unimpressed. "Who's this one? Another politician?"

"No one you know personally," Anita says, which means she doesn't want to fess up to who it is. "Anyway, I don't know what you're so upset about. I did the laundry while I was waiting for you to show up."

"Thank god," Mike mutters--not quietly enough, it seems, because both Duffy and Anita turn to look at him. "What?" he asks, obscurely irritated; everyone in the RV knows that that would've been his job.

"I'm sorry, did you have something to add, Mike?" Duffy asks.

"No," Mike says, except apparently that's not true, because he finds himself opening his mouth again. "I'm just looking forward to the deep cleaning I'm about to get to do."

It's a dig at both of them, and they both seem to realize it, Duffy rolling his eyes in exasperation and Anita putting her mug down and rising. "On that note, I'll be going," she says, smoothing down her skirt and her hair.

Duffy catches her by the arm as she makes to step past him. "If you ever, _ever_ again take what's mine without asking first, I'll make sure you regret it," he says quietly.

"I'll keep that in mind," Anita says, giving him a saccharine-sweet smile that's as fake as her tan. She pats Mike on the cheek as she passes him. "Stay out of trouble, Mikey. I don't know what he'd do without you."

"He'd manage," Mike replies dryly. It's not exactly the truth, not for either one of them, but he's not going to say that to Anita.

"Mmm," is all she says, and then she's gone.

Duffy drops onto the couch with a groan, one hand over his eyes. In the absence of anything else to do, Mike picks up the mug Anita left behind, rinsing it out in the sink. "Let's kill her," Duffy says as he's setting the mug in the drying rack.

"Your mother would throw a fit," Mike reminds him; Mrs. Duffy is even crazier than her children, and probably the only reason either one of them is still alive.

"Dammit. You're right." It's another moment before Duffy speaks again. "Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"Get us the hell out of Bellepoint."

Mike nods, heading for the captain's chair. "Got it." This, he knows how to do.

**Author's Note:**

> [Toni Morrison's house actually caught fire on Christmas Day, 1993](http://www.nytimes.com/1993/12/28/nyregion/toni-morrison-s-manuscripts-spared-in-christmas-fire.html); the real fire, however, was accidental. Her son was the only person home at the time. I've borrowed the real event for my story but changed it; I'm not attempting to claim that foul play was involved, and Mike's mother is entirely a product of my imagination. The story is inspired by a real event, in that i know someone whose mother once went to a famous person's house to congratulate them for something, thinking this was a reasonable thing to do. This person's mother didn't burn anyone's house down, either accidentally or on purpose, as far as i know.


End file.
